


Three Years Since

by C0phineLives



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Challenge Response, F/F, Hurt, One Shot, people who really shouldn't be doctors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C0phineLives/pseuds/C0phineLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Delphine left Cosima without a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Years Since

**Author's Note:**

> COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: Cosima, Delphine, and the OB universe are copyrighted to BBC America and affiliates.I am not receiving any monetary compensation for this work. 
> 
> This work is being submitted to the First Annual Fic Contest.

“We were standing toe to toe. I remember it like it was yesterday: the smell of the cedars surrounding us and the soft wafting of the rain that had just finished falling. I can close my eyes even now and be filled with that smell. She smiled sweetly, holding my hands. I told her that I would miss her. She told me she loved me and that 400 kilometers wasn’t that far. That’s the last time I touched her. 

The next few days we spent glued to Skype. We’d watch movies and fold laundry together. It was almost like she was right there with me. We sent so many Facebook messages; we were planning our future. Everything felt so…right, so perfect. This was it. This was what all those songs and books and movies were talking about. I’d finally found it…” I trailed off, determined not to cry; not here. 

“And then what happened?” Dr. Jordan asked.

I closed my eyes and sighed deeply, determined to hold in the tears that were threatening to fall. I’d cried for years about this already, how could I possibly have more tears?

I hate the answer to the question she just asked. I feel it sink deep into my intestines and twist around; just like it had for the past three years. 

“I don’t know” I whispered. 

“So there’s a piece of your memory missing” the doctor assumed, jotting down notes. 

“No, it’s not like that” I tried explaining. “I remember everything; I just don’t know what happened.”

The slightly older woman stared, confused. “I’m not sure that I understand, Ms. Neihaus.”

Cosima threw her arms in the air. “Well, hop on board my boat” I joked, trying to make light of this heavy situation; of this heavy feeling sitting inside of me that I just couldn’t seem to get rid of. “One day, I get a call from her and she just tells me that it’s over” I explain further, taking a moment to take a deep breath. “I asked why and she told me that she had to go. Then she hung up. I never heard from her again.”

“But you have a new girlfriend…” Dr. Jordan stated, scanning her notes “Shay.”

“Yeah” was all I said.

“It’s been three years and you seem to have moved on. What’s holding you back?” the doctor asked.

I thought about that, reaching deep within me “I hurt. I don’t know if I’m still in love with her or not. All I know is that I’m still hurting. I don’t know if Shay’s the answer to everything or just a distraction. I like her a lot and we have fun together. I’m just hurting and I don’t want to hurt anymore” I pleaded, and those tears that had threatened earlier, fell full force. This was my truth, one I hadn’t told anyone in a really long time. I kept it safely tucked away for those times when I was home alone. 

The doctor handed me a box of Kleenex and started writing frantically “Well, my official diagnosis is manic depressive disorder. I’m writing a prescription for Symbyax and I suggest that you take it across the hall and get it filled immediately.” She tore the paper off her prescription pad and handed it to me. 

I stared at it and shook my head “I don’t want a diagnosis, this isn’t what I wanted out of this appointment” Cosima explained. 

“Nobody wants a mood disorder, Cosima. You knew this girl for two months. Trust me, you’ll be better off taking that medication. Now if you’ll excuse me…” the doctor started getting up.

My eyes went wide “Trust you? I’ve known you for 20 minutes!” I exclaimed, unable to believe what had just happened. 

The doctor did not respond and continued walking out. I shook my head and grabbed my things. I got to my feet, storming out of the office and back in to the hallway of the busy Student Services building. I did my best to hide the tears as I shoved the hurt right back down below the surface.

I kept walking, trying to contain my emotions. If I let them go here, they would split me wide open and I would pour out all over the quad. A breakdown in the middle of campus is something I want to avoid. I let my feet carry me to the liquor store. 

Browsing the aisles, I stop at the wall of champagne. 

We were at the grocery store. Her blonde curls brushed gently against the tops of my ears as we walked, hand in hand down the aisle. There was a pot luck that day for the summer camp staff. We were supposed to be picking up a fruit tray. I felt a tug on my hand as she stopped, but I kept on walking. I turned to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and kissing her shoulder. 

“We should bring Champagne” Delphine’s voice purred in its delectably smooth French accent. The word champagne rolled off her tongue like ice cream melting in the hot sun. 

I giggled “For breakfast?”

She bumped my shoulder “Brunch. Any respectable brunch includes mimosas” she countered. 

“Got me there, Del” I admitted, grabbing a bottle at random. 

Her hand grasped mine around the bottle and like every time before, I felt lightning deep within my guts. 

“Non, Cosima. Not that one. Real champagne” the curly haired blonde told me. She read the labels carefully and beamed a smile when she found what she was looking for. Those slender fingers wrapped around the barrel of the bottle and took it off the shelf. “This one” she chimed. 

One of my most vivid memories is of drinking mimosas on that back porch, her nestled into my side as the staff sang along to Hootie and the Blowfish. 

I feel it all well up again and I peel my eyes off the bottles of sparkling wine, heading straight for the tequila. She was probably drinking champagne with her new someone anyways. She was probably just fine, while I sat here being crushed by a French press. 

Fifteen minutes later, I find myself back at my apartment, my guitar in my lap. I strum lazily as I take small puffs out of the joint hanging between my lips. I close my eyes as my fingers find strings. I’m back in the lake, under a bright moon and a sky painted in stars. I can see the blonde head pop out of the water not far from where I’m treading water. She swims over and I marvel at the absolute beauty that is her face, lit by the dim sparking of moonlight; the sharp yet soft planes taking on a more distinguished tone in this shading. 

And then she smiled. 

And then my body sprang to life.

Fire flies hung above our heads, all turning on the moment my heart did.

I watched her look up in amazement. 

“I think they’re here for us” she whispered to me, careful to keep her voice low. We were warned that voices carry over the water. 

I opened my mouth and found the words I’d been searching for. I put down my guitar and grabbed my notebook, frantically writing until I couldn’t write any more. 

I looked down at it, tears yet again flowing freely as I sipped from the bottle of Tequila. I closed the book and lay back on the couch. 

I could write song after song, poem after poem, but nothing would give me the answer. Why? Why had she left me? Why had she refused to speak to me afterwards? What did I do to deserve that? What about all of her promises? If she would have just given me an hour. She told me that I had her like no other. She meant everything, and now she’s supposed to just be nothing at all to me? How is that fair? How is any of this fair? 

Before I knew what I’d done, I’d thrown the bottle across the room. The shattering of glass brought me back. Sobbing, I pulled my knees to my chest and rested my forehead in them.

I missed her.

Sometimes I swear I can still smell her, still hear her call my name. How does this still hurt? 

The not knowing is the worst. 

Out of nowhere, she just decided that, that was it? Did she just reach the end of her line? Why wouldn’t she just tell me? Why wouldn’t she just fucking talk to me?

If she ever did come back, would I talk to her? Should I give her an hour?

I hit record. 

Twelve hours later, I had an album. I had an album but still no answers. 

I listened back to it a few times, trying to find a reason to redo it. I didn’t want to be that kind of artist; all gloom and doom, but that’s what came out. This was me right now. Maybe I did need the pills; I wasn’t sure about that yet. All I knew was that these songs felt good; they felt important. 

Playing through them again, it felt like therapy. I could imagine playing them to a crowd, all of us feeling the catharsis; the spiritual release of all that pent up emotion, all of that pent up pain. Maybe these songs would help someone else. 

I started playing shows, something I’d never done before. And I was right, the catharsis was there every night. Still, every night I would drink myself numb. 

I still had no answers and every night, the memories of Delphine would weave themselves through the maze that she created inside of my head, to make their way into my thoughts. She was like my own personal nightly sitcom, only I wasn’t laughing. 

One night, I found myself on stage yet again. I was already drunk and high, sitting on that stool and sweating out my feelings under the stage lights. I felt the crowd with me, enthralled in their own pain, being worked out through my words and music. 

These shows weren’t glamorous by any means. They were usually held in some dive where people were either already trying to drown their sorrow and decided I was a nice distraction, or local indie fans who liked to support local artists. These shows might not have been much, but they were raw and they were real. With each one, I could feel the wounds heal in to scars, scars that I was earning. I wouldn’t shove my feelings down anymore; I was facing them head on; drowning them, yes, but never burying them. I was still hurting, but I wasn’t idle. I was standing up to myself.

That night, my set ended with no standing ovation, just a crowd of about 20 clapping and thanking me. I started packing up my gear, getting ready to lock it up in the green room so I could drink until I passed out. There was no merch booth, no autograph session. My only payment: a bottle of Sauza gold, on the house. 

What I didn’t know was that tonight was different. 

I finished packing up my guitar and turned around to step off stage. 

I came face to face with Delphine. 

There she stood, all tight black jeans, blonde curls, and mixed messages. 

I felt my insides light on fire. I was caught drowning in a flood of emotion, unsure of what exactly to say, or feel, or do. I've imagined this moment a million times over in my head. I've run through what she'd say, how it would feel, what I would say. I can't remember any of it now. 

Those perfect lips parted to utter a single phrase:

“I know I might be three years too late but, can we talk?”


End file.
